OUR DRAMA GANG

When I toddled into Kate's office, of course she was Miss Adams then, (before she taught us to jump) for the interview for Uni 2 years ago, I wasn't really sure I wanted to do it. Had moved over to Mancland to marry the gorgeous chappie and couldn't find a job. He'd just done a year at Salford and was singing the praises of the place, so when he showed me the UCAS last-minute list of still available courses and I saw 'English, Drama & Performance Studies' I got interested. I'd done a Dip.H.E. back in the 80s and had regretted not going further, and this degree sounded pretty good.

Something changed for me in Kate's office that day, the chat, the debate over poetry, her passion, something. By the time I left there, I desperately wanted to do it. I remember asking her if she thought I'd find it tricky fitting in at my age, and she said, 'absolutely not, it'll be fine' the way only Kate can.

She could have been wrong of course. But she wasn't. This week I've realised how very blessed I've been. I've considered the dismal possibility of being plonked into a group of very different characters to work alongside, its made me shudder and thank my obvious abundance of lucky stars.
From the off, our gang of mostly youngters adopted me as one of 'them' in ways I could never have imagined. And not just me either, him indoors, too. Of course he thought he'd died and gone to hell being kissed and cuddled by nubile, smart and beautiful giggling girls (and Andrew), but he's been stoic to the end and suffered in silence. They shared their joys and troubles with us, making us feel so privileged. And they laughed at my bossy remonstrations, and ignored me when I got arsey and intolerant. When they could have become seriously pissed off with this old dear, they never did, or if they did they kindly never let it show.

Memories of lunches and evenings at the famous Bar Yours flicker through, a little hazy, but that was the wine. So many speeches standing on chairs while we declared our undying love for one another, and any passing lecturer. The unforgettable 'hen night' they organised in my honour, with the very greasy fireman stripper that none of us fancied, not even Andrew. The trips to Deansgate Locks where they sat me and him in a corner and kept an eye on us, ensuring that we could cope with the loud music and debauchery, as if we were their charges. The kareoke nights out where some of them wowed our locals with their fabulous star qualities. The get-together parties full of laughter and dancing, and yet more wine. Perhaps high on our list was the contigent who came to our wedding, at great personal effort on a snowy January day, and made it very special. All this of course was outside of the academia, or subsiduary, if you like. Perks of the job. The invitations kept coming and still do.

Within the degree, mostly in Max 106, we learned to trust each other with our best (and sometime shit) performances, knowing that the support was unconditional. We tolerated each others moods with only occasional minor tantrums. We learned to love the exceptional Frances P, adore Kate Adams, and be wowed by Szylvi whose 'guys' we became.
We even survived Tom, but it might be more discreet not to mention the joys of Peter Buse. Sigh. It hasn't been just me that's thought this gang was exceptional and fabulous either, the lecturers wholeheartedly agree.

It's our final year now, the countdown has begun, everyone has started planning what they're going to do next.
I want to wrap them all up in a big fluffy blanket and keep them safe for always.
Gentle Becky R and her wonderful poetry, Katie C's bubbly warmth, Faye C's witty impressions, Sally's exuberance, Fayemous's mischief making, Angela's excitement at her new ideas, the Bury girls' special take on life, Andrew's unforgettable vocals, the 'one off' Katie T, Jamie-Lea's fabulous smile, Aidan's serious views, Anna's ability to sit cross legged, Robbie's good intentions, Charlotte's craziness, Hannah's confusion, and even Adam's extraordinary gift for story telling lol.
We've lost a few along the way, Amy, Cat, Kelly, Jason, and the gorgeous Becky B, all sadly missed.

All wonderful people, stars in their own right, incredibly gifted and talented. 
As is inevitable, some have become closer than others...the kindness, understanding and loyalty many show truly overwhelms me...I have no words for that.  

To round up, I have loved our gang, from Romeo and Juliet to the serial killers...we've shared something special and you made it wonderful for me...thank you...take good care all of you. Now carry on and graduate with honours. 

Lozza/Lola x

Life is a game of darts...

See it all started with Kimberley wanting me to join up with her Ladies Wednesday League Team at her local. Now Kimberley is one of those irresistable types. We met over a kitchen table during a family crisis. Not really a time for laughter, but sometimes there's humour to be found in tragedy, its the only thing that helps, anyway we found it. Unfortunately, first there was the problem of my 'dartitis', oh yes a bona fide affliction (Eric Bristow had it) which prevents the player from letting go of the dart. This results in darts flying off into skirting boards, ceiling lights, the odd passers by (you get the picture). Well the solution/cure is to keep playing and gain confidence. I discovered this while sitting on the sidelines getting a little bit drunk week by week, paying my subs. However, with the assistance of a devoted sportsman type husband things improved. Lozzilicious was born. The night I got my first two doubles for the team, Kimberley was ecstatic. Overcome with emotion and pride, bless her. With the transfer of her darts board to the back of our kitchen door, life took on new meaning. Round the board in 7 minutes. Soon another team, more local to me had 'poached' me for Mondays. New heights indeed. A different league with different game play. Six single matches three double ones and the Gallon. (Dont ask!)
Meanwhile, lots of anecdotal stuff came to light. You see another side to ladies on a darts night. Him indoors picked it up and ran with it...into his Word Doc. and into his M.A. Clever sod.
Winter looms and Wednesday night excursions with Kimberley sadly started interfering with my health (too much booze) and time (3rd year degree at Salford). They had to be cut. Priority decisions had to be made. God I hate that expression.
Nevertheless, the kitchen darts prevail. As does the Monday night team. There's a lot to learn about oneself while aiming a dart. They have lives of their own too, shapes, sizes, weights, all very highbrow.
I owe Kimberley a debt of gratitude. Another string to my bow. Another recovery of confidence lost. So many giggles along the way. We won't talk about the Blackpool annual trip. Discretion, you understand?
She might be nutty as a fruitcake and need some anger management occasionally, but my life is richer for knowing her, Kimberley.

The HAIRY nightmare

What is it about us women and our hair. Going for a hair appointment equates with the dentist for me - terrifying. Its such a vulnerable position in that chair, while they wield their fast sharp blades and talk about your holiday plans. Who can answer questions about foreign lands under that kind of stress? Why should we have to? And in a world where straighteners are everyone's necessity I'm still yearning for curls. At least these days I dont have to endure the perm that frizzes me into an alien lookalike, which costs a fortune in posh lotions to de-tangle. Of course now they're called 'products'. What's all that about? Have they lost the ability to specify? 
And why dont hairdressers learn about things being 'even'? Do they think we can see crooked lines in our mirror at home? I almost wish I could take a spirit level with me so that if the stylist's having a bad day I can bring her into line with the bubble. Currently its about colour. Its taken me two and a half years to trust this girl and she's destroyed it all in a two hour slot one Friday. The only compensation probably was, that I was dashing off to Blackpool for the weekend, where I fitted in just bloody perfectly.
Now it means weighing up pros and cons...do I go back and tell her, get her to repair/modify it? Endure her barely hidden fury at being challenged? Or, do I abandon her, and go and cough up more money on a new one to try and build trust with.
This has gone on for most of my life. You find one that's ok and they get pregnant or move salons, thus disappearing off the face of the earth. And is that a male conspiracy that so many good stylists get pregnant? At this rate I'll just about sort one for life when I'm getting laid out in the coffin. Let's hope she wont expect a tip. 
Ok rant over.  

Time

Catching up with people you no longer see every day, is a joy. If you've liked and loved them a lot. Hearing the party sounds surrounding them, lifts your heart.
Conversations with your lover about times past - griefs, awakenings, many things that matter still, that always will.
Appreciating what you have, however small, is of such value.

Thank god to be alive, when so many aren't.

Will they know?

So. Blogging. Scary. Unveiling. Permission to invade me. Discomforting for us both. Not everything is shareable via....
Sorrows. Joys. Fears. Will they know too much?

Abandoned

Memories in monochrome, raw and real

tasting the steam in my throat

Platforms awash with tears that they steal

the longing lingers on still. . .

A child’s despair in a world so tall

knowing she was out of my reach

Time can’t diminish the echoes of all

those carriages pulling away.

If ya can't beat 'em....

Ok .... so I give in....everyone of any note (joke) has a blog now so I thought what the hell...I may as well give it a go ....